Evil Has Its Hopes
by copper-28
Summary: The warehouse is dark but there are some people in there darker than the blackest of nightfalls. The Gunman and the Doctor. Face to face, trying to live without their consultants. Johnlock and MorMor.


_**Evil Has Its Hopes**_

_The warehouse is dark but there are some people in there darker than the blackest of nightfalls. The Gunman and the Doctor. Face to face, trying to live without their consultants. The Criminal and the Detective watch on unnoticed while the Inspector and the Government listen in silence. There are some things that have gone unsaid, but tonight, everything comes out. _

_Johnlock and MorMor _

**Hope you like this, first Sherlock fic. I don't own anything except the way the words are arranged. **

-x-

Warm breath mixed with the cold air inside the run-down warehouse sending clouds of steam up into the dark. Three men cast shadows across the dimly lit floor, the grey concrete seemed to emit a foggy haze, the visibility in the building was alarming low.

"We should have back up." One of the men hissed, his voice echoing out into the abandoned space.

The shortest man – John Watson – pulled a sleek looking gun from his jacket, "I don't think back up will help us, Greg." He whispered, eyes flicking across the black emptiness, alert for any signs of movement. He stepped forwards, further into the light. A disapproving growl sounded from behind him. He whipped his head round, glaring at Mycroft, "What?"

Mycroft shook his head, standing close to the Inspector. "We shouldn't be doing this. I agree with Greg." A frown of doubt had crept onto his face where his usually impassive expression was.

John sighed, keeping a firm hold on his gun. "He said to meet him here. No-one else; just us."

Mycroft grunted his disapproval whereas Greg had a last ditch attempt at convincing the Doctor to reconsider. "Come on, John. This sounds like a trap, why are you being so careless?"

"I'm not being careless." John snapped back, turning to face the darkness, "I'm trying to solve the puzzle."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're trying to solve Sherlock's puzzle. We're treading on thin ice. If Sherlock couldn't bring Moriarty's web down then why are we attempting?"

John was about to reply when the familiar sound of metal clanging together travelled across the length of the warehouse. The three men grew silent, only the heavy breathing and rustle of clothing could be heard.

"You came." A deep unknown voice sounded from the depths of the darkness. The clunk of boots and the clicks of a loading gun grew louder, until a tall shape appeared at the other end of the room. He stepped out into the yellow light, his dirty blond hair flicked carelessly across his head and his long face sloped upwards with a menacing smirk, his cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth. He was dressed in a tan coloured shirt which was ripped and covered in grime, as were his black trousers. He held a long rifle in one hand with a duffel bag slung across his strong looking shoulders. "Sebastian Moran." He introduced himself, taking a long drag on the cigarette before flicking it away, using both hands to casually point towards the three men in turn. "John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft _Holmes_." He said 'Holmes' with a jeering sneer, although John was certain he'd heard the gunman's voice break ever so slightly.

"What do you want?" John questioned, his grip on his own gun tightening slightly.

Sebastian laughed, although the sound was very much forced. "I want to know what you think you're doing." A hard edge crept into his voice, his steel grey eyes locking with Johns. "I want to know why."

John held his ground, not daring to glance back to Mycroft and Greg. "I'm finishing what Sherlock started."

Moran smiled, the tug of his lips not conveying any real emotion. "I suggest you leave it alone."

"Where do you fit in? You're what, the right hand man?" John asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I said, leave it alone." The larger man hissed, anger blazing across his features.

"I asked you a question." John growled, keeping his sights trained on the taller man.

Sebastian grinned then, a grin filled with too many teeth. "I'm anything I need to be. But mostly I'm a killer. My men tell me you call me Bullseye sometimes, Lestrade." He said mockingly.

Lestrade perked up then. He lurched forwards, a furious look on his face. "You. You're the sniper. The one that kills so fucking much." Only Mycroft's quick shove stopped Greg from propelling himself across the warehouse, the elder Holmes held him fast by his jacket, pulling him in close.

"This is what he wants. Stop and think." Mycroft hissed, not releasing the Inspector.

Greg twisted round so he could face him, "I am not leaving here without that man in cuffs."

Sebastian chuckled, "Either we all leave alive and free, or you all leave in body bags." He waved his rifle around to highlight his point.

"You've killed a lot of people." John said, diverting Moran's attention back to him.

The sniper nodded, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Well done."

"You worked for Moriarty."

That provoked a true reaction from Sebastian. The man swallowed involuntarily, breaking eye contact with John for a second before regaining his composure. "I still do."

"Why?" John asked.

The rifle lowered, now pointing at the floor while Moran gazed questioningly at the small army doctor. "Why?" He repeated the question.

John nodded, taking a hesitant step forwards. "Yeah. Why do you work for him?"

Sebastian loosened his grip on the gun even more, letting it hang from just one hand. He smiled a real smile that just about reached his eyes. "Because he's Jim." He answered simply.

-x-

It was the soft tap of his shoes that alerted Sherlock to his presence.

"We meet again."

The taps came closer, until he could feel the other man standing beside him. He glanced down, the smaller madman leaning on the railings.

"We do indeed, Sherlock." Moriarty said in his soft sing-song voice. "And what are we going to do about it?"

Sherlock smirked, raising an eyebrow. "I think we have more important matters to think about." He turned his gaze back down to where their 'sidekicks' talked. Sebastian and John were still fighting their war, even though they both believed their other half to be dead.

"Yes. Bit of a problem isn't it?" Moriarty said, watching his gunman with a keen interest.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Don't pretend you don't care. I know you do."

Jim shot him a cold glare, "As do you."

The consulting detective sighed, turning his own attention to John. "Yes. I do care. More than I should."

Jim shook his head, "We're playing a game." He said, his voice turning deeper.

"I don't think I want to play anymore. Not like this anyway."

The smaller man turned back to Sherlock, a hidden emotion dancing across his eyes. "I'm willing to bend the rules." He practically purred.

-x-

Sebastian stepped forwards suddenly, his long strides taking him within twenty metres of Doctor Watson. The doctor in question barely flinched; the only change was the tightening of his hand around his gun.

"I asked you here for a reason. Stop your hunt now. There's nothing for you to find." Sebastian growled, staring down at the smaller man.

John squared his shoulders, his jaw set in firm determination. "I'm going to finish what Sherlock started." In truth, John knew he couldn't stop Moriarty's circle of criminals. If Sherlock couldn't then how could anyone? He carried on fighting because that's all he could think to do. If he stopped the war, he'd break and crumble. With the hunt still on, he could escape - even if it was just for a second – and pretend that Sherlock Holmes was still alive.

A cruel glint flickered across the snipers eyes and the rifle he held became more focused on John as a target. "You'll die trying."

"I'll die with a true cause." John said, almost with no emotion seeping into his voice.

Harsh laughter echoed around the damp warehouse, Sebastian shaking his head in disbelief. "You don't believe that." He snarled, taking another step forwards. "You don't give a shit about our web. You know that even if there was a slight possibility of you destroying us, another circle would form and you'd have to start all over again. You know. You only fight because you don't want to sit in silence and mourn Sherlock Holmes. Your show doesn't work on me, Doctor Watson, I can see through it because I'm a puppet in the same _fucking_ play." He paused, breathing heavily and leaning forward with anger. John watched him with curious eyes; this was the most emotion the sniper had shown since he entered the building and John didn't quite know how to react to his accusations.

"It hurts, John. I know that it hurts because Jim died too, don't forget." Sebastian's voice hitched, his jaw clenched against an unwelcome feeling. He lunged forwards again, almost within touching distance. "I should want to kill you. It's your Holmes' fault that Jim's dead. His stupid obsession with the only consulting detective and the bloody game they had to play. I should put a bullet between your eyes." He snarled, raising his gun higher to aim at Johns head.

"But you won't." John whispered, lowering his gun. He heard a soft hiss sound from behind him – probably Mycroft – but he ignored it, watching Sebastian. "You won't because we're in the same position." He smiled then, a small sad smile that drained every fake glimmer of happiness from his face. "You're right. I don't care about the circle. I just don't want to sit there and think about all the things I could be doing if he was still here. I don't want to think of all the cases we could be solving or the people he could be insulting. I don't want to think of what could be happening. I want to go out and pretend that everything's okay because pretending is better than accepting."

Sebastian didn't say anything. He just stared at John, his controlled breathing growing slightly quieter as his thoughts grew louder.

"We followed around the only two consultants in the world and you can't bring yourself to kill the only other person who understands. I know how you feel, Moran. It feels like half of you is not there, like there's always something you want but can't quite reach. You feel like crying your heart out until you've got no tears left to use. You feel like ending it all because nothing can compare to him."

Sebastian smiled, nodding his head slowly in agreement. "I miss him. I miss that crazy bastard."

"I miss you too."

It felt like the air in the warehouse had frozen over once those four words were uttered in that sing-song voice. The angels felt the sense of dread; the dangers the frost can bring, but not Sebastian. He felt the awe of the frost - the beauty that it possessed outweighed the dangers it brought with it. He turned slowly, watching as a familiar shape emerged from the darkness and that stupid little grin plastered across his face.

"You are a right arse." Sebastian growled, ignoring the other three men completely as Jim Moriarty came into view. He knew what would happen now. They'd had their moment of what they really felt; now the game was back on. His boss wouldn't speak a word of missing him once this was over – they'd carry on as if nothing had happened, as if Jim hadn't 'died' and broken Sebastian. He wouldn't question it. He'd follow Jim to the end of the earth and not utter a single complaint. He cast his gaze over Jim, noticing the tired look in his eyes and the scuff marks on his shoes. He doubted he'd ever find out why Jim did what he did, nor what he's actually been doing. He might get a version of events but he'll never understand the true story. To be honest with himself, Sebastian didn't really care.

"What happened to you missing me? I was excepting tears of joy. Quite disappointed actually." Moriarty taunted his gunman, strolling over at a leisurely pace.

"You're supposed to be dead." John breathed, his gun now pointed at Moriarty, blind anger tainting his thoughts.

Jim grinned a little wider, coming to a stop a few paces away from Sebastian. "So is Sherlock."

"Don't you dare." John snarled, re-adjusting his grip on the weapon. "Don't you dare play games with me."

Jim shrugged his shoulders, a sarcastic glint in his eyes. "If you don't believe me that's fine." He paused for a second, watching John and the gun. "Look, if you're going to shoot us, shoot us. I don't have time for this. I need to fill Seb in on what's been going on." He waited, not removing his gaze from John. "No? Well then, if you'll excuse us." With that, Moriarty turned and vanished back into the dark, his sniper hot on his heels. He could have shot the bastards there and then, two bullets to the back of their heads but, John couldn't quite do it.

"You should have let me bring back up." Greg growled, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

John shook his head, lowering his gun. "No. Moran has a point. You take down one and another pops up in its place." He turned to face Greg and Mycroft, his face the picture of defeat. "What's the point in trying? Only Sherlock… Sherlock." He stopped dead, his whole body rooted itself to the spot.

Just behind the two men stood Sherlock Holmes, an apologetic smile ghosting across his face. He stepped forwards; the coat John remembered so well billowing out behind him.

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock outstretched one of his hands as if he was approaching a skittish animal.

John staggered slightly, the shock of seeing his best friend – or whatever he was – too much for his shaking body. The taller man was there instantly to support him, one hand under his arm and the other resting against his waist.

"Are you alright?" Concern layered his voice, but by now the shakes had stopped and the anger was rapidly bubbling.

"You…" He couldn't think of a suitable insult, so instead he let his fist connect with Sherlock's stupid chiselled face.

Once the consulting detective recovered and stood with one hand pressed against his face, John smiled a smile that lit up his eyes for the first time in months.

"Don't you dare do that again." He said, fighting against the tears of sheer joy that threatened to spill.

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head. "Never."


End file.
